The Heptameron

by Marguerite de Navarre

  Hearing these truthful words, the Duke began to soften, and said:

  ‘I assure you that I have not believed her. Therefore do not be afraid to go about your business as you have been accustomed to do, in the assurance that if I find that truth is on your side, my affection for you will be even greater than before. But, if I find that you are lying, then your life will be at my mercy!’

  The young man thanked the Duke, and declared his readiness to submit to whatever punishment should be meted out to him if he were ever found guilty. When the Duchess saw the young man serving at table once again, she could not keep her patience, and, turning to her husband, said: ‘It would be no more than you deserve, my lord, if you were to be poisoned, since you appear to have more confidence in your mortal enemies than in your closest friends!’

  ‘I beg you, my love, do not torment yourself over this affair. If I find out that what you told me is true, I assure you that he will not have twenty-four hours to live. But he has sworn to me upon his oath that it is not true. Moreover, I myself have noticed nothing. Consequently, unless I am shown convincing proof I cannot believe it.’

  ‘Truly, my lord,’ she said, ‘such kindness makes his wickedness the greater. What greater proof do you desire than that such a man as he should never be known to be in love? Believe me if he had never presumed to devote himself to my service, he would not have waited so long to find himself a mistress, for no young man would go on leading such a solitary life in such a court, had he not set his heart on someone in such an exalted position that he was content to live in vain hope. And, since you are so sure that he never conceals the truth from you, I beg you, put him on his oath to tell you where his heart does lie, for if he tells you he’s in love with someone else, then I’m happy for you to believe it, but if not, you must accept that what I say is the truth.’

  The Duke found his wife’s argument sound, and questioned the young man closely.

  ‘My wife continues to insist on the truth of what she tells me,’ he said, ‘and has given a number of good reasons to support what she believes. They are reasons which give me grounds to be extremely suspicious about you. What she has pointed out to me is that it is rather astonishing that a man like you, young, and noble in every respect, should not, as far as anyone knows, have ever had an affair of the heart. This leads me to suspect that what she says about your feelings is true – that your hope that one day they may be fulfilled gives you such satisfaction that you cannot bear to think about other women. Now, I ask you as your friend, and order you as your master, to tell me whether you are devoted to the service of any lady at all.’

  Although the poor young man wished as dearly as he held his life that he could have concealed his love, he was compelled, upon seeing his master’s jealousy, to swear that there was in truth a lady whom he loved, a lady of such beauty that beside her the Duchess and all the ladies of her company were ugliness itself. He begged the Duke not to make him give the lady’s name, for there was a bond between them and an understanding that it would be broken if one of them were to make it known. The Duke promised not to press him further and was so delighted with what he had learned that he treated him even more kindly than before. The Duchess was not slow to notice this, and with her customary cunning set about discovering the reason for it. The Duke made no secret of what he had been told. But she was not satisfied. Driven on, no longer now by desire for revenge alone, but by the violence of her jealousy, she insisted that her husband order the man to reveal the name of the lady he loved. She was certain, she declared, that what he had said was a lie, and that this was the best possible way to demonstrate the truth of what she herself had from the beginning maintained. If the young man refused to name the woman he thought so beautiful, then the Duke would, she went on, be the most stupid prince in the world to take him at his word. The unhappy Duke, whose mind could be changed just as his wife pleased, then went for a walk alone with the young gentleman. He told him that his distress was now even greater, for he was afraid that what he had been told on the previous occasion was a mere excuse to prevent him suspecting the truth. He was more tormented than ever by his doubts, he said, and therefore begged and besought the young man to reveal the name of the lady whom he loved so deeply. But the poor young man implored his master not to force him to commit so great a sin against the one he loved as to break the promise he had kept so long, and to make him lose in a single day that which he had preserved for seven whole years. He would rather endure death itself than wrong the lady who was so steadfast in her loyalty to him. The Duke saw that he was not prepared to answer. The jealousy that swept over him was so violent that his features became contorted with rage, and he said:

  ‘Then make your choice. Either you tell me the name of this woman you love so much. Or you leave the lands under my jurisdiction for ever, and on the understanding that if I find you here after eight days have elapsed I shall have you most cruelly put to death!’

  If ever a faithful servant was cast into the depths of despair, it was surely this young man. Truly could he have said Angustiae sunt mihi undique, * for, on the one hand, if he told the truth he would lose his lady when she learned that he had wilfully broken his promise and, on the other hand, if he did not tell the truth, he would be banished and would never again be able to see her. Thus pressed on all sides, a cold sweat broke over him, as if his sorrow brought him to the brink of death. When the Duke saw how the young man reacted, he concluded that it was indeed the Duchess, and no one else, with whom he was in love, and that it was because he could not give another lady’s name that he had been overcome by such anguish.

  ‘If what you say were the truth,’ he said harshly, ‘you would hardly find it so painful to tell me, and I believe that it is your guilt which so tortures you.’

  Roused by these words, and moved by his affection for his master, the young gentleman resolved to tell him the truth, reassuring himself that the Duke’s sense of honour was so high, that he would not for the world ever divulge the secret. So, falling upon his knees before him, and wringing his hands, he said:

  ‘My lord, it is my indebtedness toward you and the love I bear you, more than fear of death, that bid me speak, for I cannot endure that you should be so beset by false beliefs about me. To relieve you from your agony, I shall therefore do something that otherwise no form of torture could have forced from me, humbly beseeching you, my lord, that you will swear in the name of God, and promise upon your oath as a prince and Christian that you will never reveal this secret that you force me to tell you.’

  The Duke then swore by all the oaths he knew that he would never divulge the secret to anyone in the world, either in speech, in writing or in manner. Then the young man, confident that he could place his trust in such a virtuous prince, laid the foundation stone of his own undoing, saying:

  ‘Seven long years ago, my lord, knowing that your niece, the Lady of Vergy,* was widowed and without match, I strove to earn her favour. Since my birth was such that I could not hope to marry her, I contented myself with being accepted as her devoted servant. And it has pleased God that this alliance should be till now so prudently conducted that there is no man or woman alive who knows of it but ourselves. But now you too know of it, my lord, and in your hands I place my honour and my life, humbly beseeching you to guard this secret and to hold my lady, your niece, in no less esteem for what you now know, for I believe that there is under heaven no more perfect creature.’

  If ever anyone was relieved and delighted, it was the Duke at this moment. For, knowing how beautiful his niece was, he was in no doubt that she was likely to be more attractive to the young man than was his wife. But, unable to comprehend how such a liaison could have been so mysteriously maintained, the Duke asked the young man how he had been able to see his lady. The young man explained how her room opened on to a garden, how on the days when he was expected a little door was left unlocked and how he would walk in and wait till he heard the bark of a little dog which his lady let int
o the garden to give the signal that her women had left. He told the Duke how he would go in and talk with her the whole night through, how she would appoint the day for his return, and how he had never once without good reason failed her.

  The Duke, who was the most curious of men and who in his time had had many a love-affair, asked the young man to take him with him, not as a master but as a comrade, next time he should go to see his niece, partly in order to banish lingering doubts and partly to hear more about this extraordinary story. Having already gone as far as he had, the young man could not refuse his request, and told him that it was that very evening which was the time of his next assignation. If the Duke had gained a kingdom he could not have been more delighted. Pretending to retire to his private room, he had two horses harnessed, one for himself and one for the young man. Then they rode through the night, from the Duke’s residence at Argilly all the way to Vergy.

  Tethering their horses outside the castle wall, they went up to the little gate. The young man led the Duke inside, and asked him to wait behind a walnut tree, from where he would be able to see whether what he had told him was true or not. He did not have to wait in the garden for long before the little dog was heard barking, and the young man walked towards the tower, out of which came the lady to greet him. She kissed him and told him it seemed like a thousand years since she had last seen him. Then into her room they went, closing the door behind them. Now that the Duke had witnessed their secret he felt more than satisfied. He did not have to wait long for the young man to come out again, having told his lady that he had to go back earlier than usual because the Duke was intending to go hunting at four o’clock the next morning and he dared not break his word. The Lady of Vergy placed her honour above pleasure, and she did not try to delay him in the performance of his duty, for the thing that she prized most about this noble love of theirs was that it should remain secret before all men. So at one hour after midnight the young man departed, and his lady, in her cap and mantle, accompanied him into the garden, though she did not go as far as she would have liked, for, afraid lest she should see the Duke, he made her return to her room. The Duke and the young man mounted their horses and rode back to the château at Argilly, and as they rode, the Duke swore again and again that he would die sooner than reveal the secret.

  After this the Duke grew to love and trust the young gentleman so much, that no one in his court stood higher in his favour, and at this the Duchess was filled with rage. But she was forbidden by her husband ever to mention the subject again to him. He told her that he knew the truth, and that he was perfectly content, for he also knew that the lady the young man loved was more worthy of his love than she. These words wounded the Duchess’s heart so deeply that she succumbed to a sickness worse than the fever. The Duke went to her room to comfort her. But there was only one thing she wanted – to be told the name of the beautiful lady whom the young man loved. And she pressed him so hard that he finally walked from her room, saying, ‘If you speak such words to me again, then we shall part.’ The Duke’s words aggravated her sickness, and she pretended that she could feel her unborn child stirring within her, and the poor Duke was so overjoyed at this that he came to her bed. But as his passion was mounting, she turned on to her side, and said:

  ‘I implore you, my husband, since you feel no love, either for your wife or for your child, let us go to our death together!’ These words were accompanied by such cries and floods of tears that the Duke was afraid she would lose the fruit of her womb. So, taking her in his arms, he begged her to tell him what she wanted, and assured her that there was nothing he would not do for her.

  ‘Ah, my lord,’ she replied, still weeping, ‘how can I hope that you would do anything difficult for me, when you will not do for me the simplest and most reasonable thing in all the world, when you will not tell me who is the mistress of the wickedest servant you have ever had. Once I used to think that you and I were as one heart, one soul, one flesh. But now I know that you regard me as a stranger, for those secrets which you ought not to hide from me you conceal from me as if I were a stranger. Oh, how many times in the past have you confided in me over secret matters of far greater importance! Have you ever heard that I have given them away? You have tried my will and found it so equal to your own that you cannot doubt that I am more yourself than I am myself. And even if you have sworn to tell this man’s secret to no one, yet you can tell it to me without breaking your word, for I am and cannot be other than you, my lord. I have you in my heart, I hold you in my arms, I carry a child within me in whom you live, and I cannot have your heart though you have mine! The more loving and faithful I am, the harsher, the more cruel you become. A thousand times a day I wish that I might die and deliver my child from such a father, yes, and deliver myself from such a husband! I hope death will come upon me soon now, for now I know that you prefer your faithless servant to your own wife, your loving wife and the mother of a child who is your own and who now will perish also because I cannot have of you that which I desire to know above all else!’

  So saying, she put her arms around him and kissed him, sprinkling his face with her tears, and uttering such doleful cries that the good Duke, terrified lest he lose both wife and child, decided to tell her the whole truth. But first he swore that if ever she should reveal it to any soul alive, it would be by his own hand that she would die, and to this judgement and sentence she submitted herself. Then the poor deceived husband proceeded to tell her from beginning to end everything that he had heard and seen. She listened quietly, and pretended to be satisfied, while in her heart she had quite different thoughts. But she covered up her passion as best she could, for she feared the Duke.

  The day came round when the Duke held his court, a day of great feasting when all the ladies in the land were invited, and amongst them the Duke’s niece. After the banquet the dancing began, and each and every one performed their part. But the Duchess, tortured by the sight of the Lady of Vergy in all her grace and beauty, could not rejoice, and even less could she keep her bitterness from showing itself. For, summoning all the ladies to sit around her, she began to turn their talk to matters of love, and when she saw that the Lady of Vergy did not speak, she said, her heart swollen with jealousy: ‘And you, fair niece, is it possible that with your beauty you have no lover or gentleman devoted to your service?’

  ‘Madame,’ replied the Lady of Vergy, ‘my beauty has brought me no such benefits, for since my husband’s death I have desired no one’s love but that of his children, and I am content that it should be so.’

  ‘Fair niece, fair niece,’ answered the Duchess with terrible bitterness in her voice, ‘there is no love so secret that it is not known, and no little dog so tamed, so trained that his yapping is not heard!’

  I leave you to imagine, Ladies, the suffering that was caused the Lady of Vergy when she saw that what had been kept hidden for so long was now to her great dishonour openly declared. Her honour, so carefully guarded, yet now so ignominiously lost, tortured her; but even more tortured was she by the suspicion that her lover had broken his promise. She believed that he could never have done such a thing unless he had fallen in love with a lady who was more beautiful than she, and to whom the overpowering force of passion must have led him to declare their secret. But the virtue of the Lady of Vergy was so great that she gave no indication of her feelings, but merely laughed, replying to the Duchess that she did not understand the language of the beasts. Yet beneath this virtuous dissimulation her heart was so heavy with grief that she rose, and walked through the Duchess’s room into a dressing-room. The Duke, who was strolling nearby, saw her go in. There the poor lady, thinking herself quite alone, fell so heavily in her weakness upon the bed that a young woman, who had been sleeping on the floor, got up and looked through the curtains to see who it could be. Seeing that it was the Lady of Vergy and that she believed herself alone, the girl dared not say anything, but listened quietly, as the lady began in deathly tones to lament her lot:

>   ‘O unhappy woman, what are these words that assail my ears? What is this sentence of death that I have heard pronounced? Is this the judgement that will end my life? O most beloved of men, is this the reward for my chaste, noble and most virtuous love? O my heart, have you chosen so perilously as to choose for a faithful servant a faithless wretch, for a man of truth the most dissembling knave, for a guardian of a secret one who has an evil tongue? Alas! How can it be that a secret kept so well hidden from all of humankind should yet be revealed to the Duchess? Alas! my little dog, so obedient, you who were my only messenger throughout this long and virtuous love of mine, it was not you who betrayed me! It was this man, whose voice has carried farther than the bark of any dog! It was this man, who has less gratitude than any beast! It was this man, who broke his vow, who exposed the happy life which harming no one, we led together for so long! Oh my dear love! No one else’s love but yours found a place in my heart, and with your love my life was perserved. Now must I declare you my mortal enemy? Now must I throw my honour to the winds, my body into the earth, and my soul to its eternal resting-place? Is the beauty of the Duchess so supreme that like that of Circe it has transmuted you? Has she turned you from virtue to vice, from goodness to evil, from a man into a ferocious beast? O my love, you have broken your promise to me, but I shall not break mine. I gave my word that I should never see you again, if our love should ever be divulged. Yet since without seeing you I cannot live, gladly I embrace the extremity of pain that now I feel, seeking no remedy from medicine or reason, for death alone can bring it to an end, death, which is more dear to me than life without my love, without my honour, without my happiness. It is not war or death that have stolen my love from me, it is not any sin of mine that has stripped me of my honour, it is not my weakness and failures that have made me lose everything that gave me joy, but cruel Fortune, who has made him who should have been most grateful an ingrate traitor; it is cruel Fortune who has meted out to me the very contrary of my deserts. Ah! my Duchess, what pleasure it gave you to mock me, when you spoke of my little dog! Then rejoice in that which belongs by right to me alone! Mock her, then, who thought she would be free of mockery by loving secretly and virtuously! Oh! How those words wrung my heart! How they made me blush for shame, how they made me pale with jealousy! Alas! my heart, I feel the end is nigh! You burn, my heart, for the [love that is now laid bare], you are turned to cold, hard ice, wearied unto death by jealousy and grievous wrongs! For bitter grief I cannot now, my heart, console you! Alas! poor soul, you who have adored too much the creature and forgotten his Creator, must now return to Him from whose hands you have been torn by the vanity of human love. Be assured, my soul, that the Father you will find will be better far than the lover for whose sake you so many times forsook Him. Ah my God, my Creator, who art true and perfect love, by whose grace the love I bore this man remained unstained by sin, unless it be the sin of loving him too much, I humbly pray that in thy mercy thou wilt receive the soul and spirit of her who now repents of breaking thy first and just Commandment. By the merit of Him whose love is beyond all understanding, forgive the sin which I through loving too much and too well have committed. I thee alone do I place my trust. Adieu, my lover and my friend – alas, this word, this empty word doth pierce my heart!’